The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(51)
“Are you coming, Amadine?”
I opened my eyes to see Luc waiting for me a few yards away, an amused smile on his face. I fell into stride beside him as we wound our way through the street, taking the road that led to the riverbank. We passed by the market, which was teeming with life and smells, but I didn’t give myself the luxury to be distracted. And Luc set a hardy pace; he led me to where the Cavaret River ran wide and shallow, where the currents danced over the backs of rocks.
He pulled off his shoes and rolled up his breeches, wading to the center of the rapids while I was content to search along the banks. A rock the size of a fist, I had told him. And as I continued to meander down the shore, stopping here and there to scrutinize a few rocks, I wondered if this was going to be another futile attempt. . . .
“Lady?”
I glanced up, startled to see a man watching me. He was only two arm lengths away, leaning against the trunk of a river birch. He was middle-aged with shoulder-length dark hair; his face was wrinkled and weathered, his clothes ratty and filthy, but his eyes were as two coals that had just felt breath upon them. They gleamed at the sight of me.
I halted, unsure what to do, and he pushed off the tree and took one step closer, the shade dappling his shoulders and face. He meekly extended a hand, his dirty fingers trembling.
“Lady, what is the name of the man who you live with?”
I took a step back, jarring my ankle in a deep eddy of the river. The stranger was speaking Middle Chantal—the language of Valenia—but his voice held an obvious accent, a betraying brogue. He was Maevan.
Saints, I thought, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. Was he one of Lannon’s spies?
“Please, tell me his name,” the man whispered, his voice going hoarse.
That was when I heard the splashing. Luc had finally seen him, and I cast a half glance over my shoulder to see my brother come crashing toward us, his breeches fully drenched, a dagger in his hand. So he was more like his father than I’d realized, sprouting steel and blades like weeds.
“Get away from her,” he growled, stepping between me and the stranger.
But the bedraggled man held his ground, his eyes gone wide as he stared at Luc.
“Go on! Away with you!” Luc impatiently flicked the dagger toward him.
“Lucas?” the stranger whispered.
I felt the air change, the wind pull back as if she were fleeing. Luc’s back stiffened, and a cloud stole the sunlight as the three of us stood, unmoving, uncertain.
“Lucas? Lucas Ma—”
Luc was on the stranger, snapping from his web of shock. He took the man by the collar and shook him, holding the tip of the steel to the man’s grubby neck.
“Do not dare speak such a name,” my brother ordered, so low I could hardly catch the words.
“Luc? Luc, please,” I cried, moving closer.
But Luc hardly heard me. He was staring at the man; the man stared right back, although tears were lining his eyes, dripping down his bearded cheeks.
“How long have you been here?” Luc hissed.
“Six years. But I’ve waited . . . waited twenty-five years . . .”
There was a loud splash from behind us. We turned to look, to see a group of children on the other side of the bank. Two of the boys were warily watching us, and Luc lowered his dagger, but it still remained sheathed between his fingers.
“Come, we can give you a hot meal for the night,” Luc said loudly, so the children could hear. “But you will have to go to the cathedral if you need alms.” He glanced at me, wordlessly telling me to follow close behind him as he hauled the stranger forward, keeping the blade tucked sightlessly against the man’s back.
It was an awkward, hasty walk to the house. We entered through the back door, and I remained in Luc’s shadow all the way to Jourdain’s office door, which was abruptly closed in my face. I stood in the hall, unbalanced, and listened to the rumble of Jourdain’s voice, of Luc’s, of the stranger’s, as they conversed behind the heavy door. No chance of eavesdropping, but I didn’t need to as I found a seat on the creaky stairs. Because the pieces were slowly coming together.
Cartier had once spoken to me of a revolution-turned-massacre that had happened twenty-five years ago in Maevana. I closed my eyes, remembering the cadence of my master’s voice. Twenty-five years ago, three lords tried to dethrone Lannon . . . Lord Kavanagh, Lord Morgane, and Lord MacQuinn. . . .
I dwelled on all the fragments that I had been gathering since I’d met Aldéric Jourdain. A widower with a son. A lawyer skilled with a blade. Twenty-five years, with a last name that began with M. A man who desired to see Lannon obliterated.
I finally knew who Jourdain was.
SIXTEEN
THE GRIM QUILL
I waited on the stairs, watching the afternoon light fade into dusk, an ache pounding in my head. But I wasn’t going to move, not until I could catch Jourdain and set a few things straight. So when the office door finally opened, spilling candlelight into the hall, I quickly stood, the stair creaking beneath me.
Luc and the stranger emerged first, heading down the corridor to the kitchen. And then came Jourdain. He stood on the threshold and felt my gaze, glancing up to where I stood.
“Father?”
“Another time, Amadine.” He began to follow Luc and the stranger to the kitchen, willfully ignoring me.